Snake Eyes
by Animom
Summary: Otogi has found a way to deal with the dreadful boredom that comes from getting everyone and everything without effort. ** Belated Secret Santa 2010 pinch hit written for Higurazel. ** Rated for sexual content. Bondageshipping (YnM/Otogi), of a sort.


Yu-Gi-Oh is the intellectual property of Kazuki Takahashi and Konami, and is being used in this fanfiction for fan purposes only. No infringement or disrespect is intended by this fanfiction.

Description: Otogi Ryuji gets tired of being successful at everything all the time. Rated for sexual topics and language.

Note: Written as a pinch hit for Higurazel for the 2010 Secret Winter Exchange. Unbetaed and perverse.

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><p><strong>Snake Eyes<strong>  
><em>by Animom<em>

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><p>.<p>

Otogi knew as soon as he woke that he was not alone in the hotel room's luxurious bed.

He considered playing the game before he looked, to see if he could remember – one? two? more? female? male? transitioning? – but it didn't matter, and so he rolled over.

Female. Reddish-blonde with brunette roots. Snoring none too quietly, and drooling a little. The makeup that had probably looked artfully whorish last night in the club – such self-advertising saved him _so_ much time when traveling – was now a garish blotch around her eyes and mouth. He lifted the sheets, looking for the condom he very much hoped he'd find, since he really didn't have time to go get tested for whatever the party-girl STD of the month was. He was surprised to see that her cartoonishly-oversized breasts appeared to be surgically un-augmented – but then again, melons like that would be sagging down to her knees by the time she was thirty. He tamped down his revulsion and ran his hand lightly over her hairless crotch, making a face when he found the used condom stuck to her thigh like a shed snake molt.

She opened her eyes. Muddy gray-brown, not improved by the bloodshot whites. "Hey lover," she said softly, putting her hand on his shoulder. "Mornin'."

He wondered if it would be different if he slept with someone fat or ugly or hairy: certainly the thin, beautiful, perfectly-waxed ones were all the same, mind-numbingly dull, with the same bland tasteless odorless bodies.

"Morning baby," he said, and as usual when he was on autopilot he used one of his trademark moves, smoothing her hair away from her face and then kissing one of her eyelids. The smeared makeup made it look bruised.

She slid sideways and half-under him. It was so easy to read her expression – she was surprised that he wasn't hard – that he almost slapped her. "I must look awful," she said with a little sigh, trawling for compliments. Or excuses. "Bed-head. No makeup. Fuzzy teeth."

"No, you're sexy and beautiful," he said, the meaningless words falling into place for the hundredth, the thousandth time. "And I'd love to stay in bed with you all day, but I'm already late for three meetings. No time to shower." Her lips were grotesque.

"Oh, okay." She was disappointed, but like the sheep she was she clambered out of bed – ah yes, there was the predictable tramp stamp between her ass-dimples, an _ouroburos_ – and gathered up her dress and purse. There hadn't been any underwear: that at least he remembered, the way she'd straddled him the instant they were in the taxicab, standard wet-dream porn flick fashion.

She struggled into her Frederick's of Hollywood fuck-me shoes. "Can I see you later?" she asked.

"Sure, baby," he said. "I got your number last night, remember? Before we came back here."

"Oh," she said, and her awkwardness and disappointment were genuine: she knew he'd never call. "That's right." She brushed her hair back with one hand and added with pathetic desperation, "I feel we really connected, you know? Like you really knew me, and I really knew you."

"I know," he said, smiling the dazzling, perfect smile he knew he'd smiled a thousand times before. "I seem to have that effect on people."

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The rest of the day went as these days always did, as almost all of his days did. In meetings, he spoke, they obeyed. He asked, they scrambled to get. He walked, heads turned to follow him. Everywhere he went, he only had to look at someone for a few moments before they were his, forever, eager to do whatever, whenever.

He was sick of it.

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He'd dozed on the plane, so during the limo ride home he checked his messages: business first, then personal. Every single one made him angry. All concessions he'd asked for made. All contracts he'd demanded signed. Offers of home-cooked meals, weekends sailing, free dungeon time with the slaves of his choice.

Boring, boring, _boring_.

The city sparkled in the oncoming dusk, competing with his reflection in the window, but of course dark hair and seductive green eyes and a mouth made for oral sex (as one of his earliest lovers had told him) won.

They _always_ won.

He took the dice from his pocket, his heart beginning to pound in excitement. It had been more than three weeks, perhaps it would be permitted. "Please, just one roll," he whispered. "No matter what the answer, I will obey." He pursed his lips and blew on them gently, tongue and lips and nipples and ass and dick already tingling, hoping, hoping …

He dropped the dice onto the limousine's carpeted floor. A single pip on each die. _Snake eyes._

"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

He pressed the intercom for the driver. "Tell the staff I won't need dinner tonight. I have a lot of work to do and don't wish to be disturbed for any reason."

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Painfully excited by the time he got home, he locked himself in his special basement office.

It had taken almost a year after Battle City to perfect it. He had first carefully explored the connection that Industrial Illusions had to KaibaCorp mainframes, mapping just a few paths at a time. And then patiently, methodically, he had searched the video archive of the tournament for two particular duels.

Almost from the start, just watching wasn't enough. He wanted – he _needed_ – to be there, in their place, to be the one stripped of everything, bound and helpless, an insignificant offering unable to escape the unholy fire.

And so he acquired and adapted one of the old glass Battle Box cubicles. Draped in purple silk velvet, it was his tabernacle to the Game of Shadow, the place where he could go to duel a special, highly encrypted holographic opponent. No, not an opponent – an object of worship, his Dark God. He had constructed a deck full of weak cards, none of which supported any of the others in any way, so that no matter what he drew, no matter what _He_ drew, the outcome would be the same. The first time he'd tried it out, faced that hungry, pitiless stare and heard that gloating laugh, the knowledge that he'd lose more and more life points until he _failed_, until he lost the game and had to submit to the penalty had stirred up such an intense combination of nausea and exhilaration and shame that he'd climaxed almost immediately.

But of course it wasn't enough to _know_, he had longed to _feel_ it, and so of course he had found a way. Tonight, as he had done on every other of the rare occasions when he was given permission to face his God, he undressed, removed his jewelry, and took a locked box of equipment from the personal safe in his office. Reverently, he inserted the specially-made electrical transformer into the dueling console's headphone jack; and then attached the lines from the metal-studded restraints, the plug, the rod, the patches…. As he made the last adjustments before the duel began he tasted copper; in his eagerness he must have bit through his lip again.

And suddenly there He was: the Master of Ra, violet power flowing from his fingertips, stabbing into him without mercy. "Snake eyes," gasped Otogi as his body spasmed from the electrical current. The air smelt of ozone and defeat. "Snake eyes … I lose."

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This is a slightly revised version of what was previously posted to the Secret Santa Project at FFnet.

(03) 11 July 2011


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